Smile, Darling
by findingBIRDS
Summary: Past murders are suddenly brought to the present and old flames return, and dark secrets are uncovered to wrench the hearts of all.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

**Warning**: M chapters (adult themes, cursing, nonconsensual sex)

**Author's Note: **I got the idea for this story after watching The Graduate. The two plots don't really have to do anything with each other; I was trying to aim more for the idea of one unhappy person ruining another person's life, which causes the person with a ruined life to destroy another's, etc. But this time it will all be with FrUK, hinted USUK, a lot of one-sided ScotlandxEngland, in the end some major UKFr and a lot of surprises.

I'd like to add that the letter in the first chapter would have been written three weeks before the real story begins. The letter is only here to tell Arthur's side of the story since you would have not known it otherwise, as the rest will be in Francis', Alys' and Antonio's point of view. It will also be a good thing to read again here and there once and a while as the events written of in the letter are connected with what will happen in the story.

Smile, Darling will probably be wrapped up in a matter of nine tidy chapters. Just thought I'd throw that out there. It's hard to plan out long stories, so I made a short one!

* * *

><p>September 18, 2011<br>A letter to the Lord and Jury of the Crown Court: Case 10830652

Here in my hospital room, I thought that I'd never see the day when this would happen. It was inevitable though. Next week at the hearing, though my voice is half-way back and therefore usable, I know that if my barrister agrees to let me end on such a note as speaking my mind that I won't be able to if I tried. I don't have to look into the future to see that I'll stand up in front of the jury, the prosecutors and judge to only feel the presence of Francis at my side with his breath held and heart beating. Because of this, I give the court this letter, withholding my right to stay in the care of doctors to fully recover. Such a piece of writing would usually be called an address, but that is not what I'm writing. I am not addressing the court. I write a letter to those who it concerns only so that maybe I can finally reveal the ghosts that haunt me.

August 18th 2009, my parents died in a plane crash that was going to the United States. Something happened with it's left wing, sending it down into the ocean. They recovered the plane and all the bodies, but everyone was too dead to bring back to life by the time that the rescue teams came. Since I was only sixteen and not old enough to support myself yet, I was sent to my only other relative that could possibly take me in; My brother, Roy Kirkland. You may remember hearing his name on the news about a year ago, November 7th 2010, when he died. He was murdered. A bastard killed by bastard.

I remember seeing him for the first time in all those years. He opened the door to his shabby house in Hull, Yorkshire, red hair uncombed and a cigarette pushed to the side of his mouth, and with that opened me to my new life. He loved me as much as he eventually hated me.

From the first few months living with Roy, I discovered numbers things about him. First, he effectively bought and sold drugs for profit and used some for himself as well. Second, he got angry easily. A wrong word from someone on the other side of the phone sent him in a state of rage, and when said someone was talking to him face-to-face things went over the line of sole insults. And lastly, he wouldn't stand for me doing anything he did, or 'becoming him', as he put it. Roy insisted that I was to continue going to school, that I was to go to college and after I was ready for the world that I'd move the bloody hell out and find myself a new home, away from the fumes of smoke and existing bad influences in his small house.

However, though he certainly tried to prevent it, one day I agreed to tag along with a few of his acquaintances into town after weeks of persuasion on their part. Hence, into the depths of crime I plunged. From drinking and fighting to making myself bluntly known by those who didn't know me, every night I slowly but surely picked my way up the food chain in Hull. Eventually, instead of being known as Roy's little boy, I was known by the title Kirkland - only those who were close enough to me in the circle of people I kept called me simply by Arthur. I dropped out of school and prowled the streets, letting myself drift day to day heedlessly as I woke up in stranger's houses and got bailed out of prison on numerous occasions by my brother. Ever since I took a turn on what I used to be, my brother and I would get into horrendous fights. He would accuse me of becoming as screwed up and monstrous as he was, and my way of fighting back was doing exactly that. I'd bring women back home during the night, drink and smoke during the day, and despite the nearly daily spats and brawls with Roy, I came to recognize that I was not only high off of the loaded bowl in front of me but off of life in general.

That was, until the punches thrown from Roy swiftly became repeated beatings and sometimes stabs. And with the sudden break to my circuit boards my reign over the streets was over as fast as it came, which let me fall into my own personal hell within the walls of Roy's home. The sense of emotional scarring happened constantly - I was not allowed to go out or my hand would get pressed against a hot stove, or maybe I'd get lucky and stay locked in a suffocating closet for a day. Food was suddenly scarce and rarely served, forcing me to live off of faucet water and whatever else I could get my hands on. This continued for easily over two months before I got my earned myself an escape - Roy had gone somewhere, to the store if I recall, leaving me free to get on my motorcycle and ride off into town. After several events that I can barely remember, it was the next morning and I was lying on a strange bed.

It wasn't like the ones that I would usually wake up in, reeking of sex and smoke. Instead, this one had endless Spanish quilts and two pillars on either side of the headboard. There was faint murmur of something - a television I think - that wafted calmly through the bright walls. Everything was so beautiful and clean, and this scared me - it reminded me too much of my old house in London, where I'd hear my parents laugh in front of a roaring fire and the occasional chatter of family friends that came to visit. It had been so long since I thought about Mother and Father that it shook me. I knew that I had to thank the person that picked up my unconscious self off the street at the time, but I was in such a panic that I instead retreated out the front door where no one could catch me escaping. I managed to get a scrap of paper though, an address of some sort, and stuffed it away in my wallet, without much thought of what my hands had taken. With that, I gave myself up to the onslaught of my brother's rage when I finally got back to the house.

How wrong was I, thinking that things couldn't have possibly gotten worse when I returned. But things did. "Now that you're as vile as me," he'd stated, glowering at me from the darkly shadowed corners of the living room, the bright flickers of his cigarette ocasionally lighting up his lower face, "you should know how you have to constantly pay for the things you've done." It wasn't the last time I'd heard that exact line. That sentence was one of the tools that Roy used to play with my mind when he finally came to pass. Oh, how he played.

I was standing at front mat, just about to sneer and head to the tight quarters of my bedroom before I found myself slammed against a wall. I'd braced myself, waiting for the lip-busting punch to my face or the bruising kick to my ankle, but instead I felt the musty house air lick at my thighs once the cover that protected them dropped to the floor and bunched about my feet. And so it began. After that, I'm not very sure how long I stayed in his house before I got out, always wretchedly trying to get out through windows, punching holes in the walls to try to break through, even trying to storm the front door when I was desperate enough when I wasn't being beaten or assaulted. But I had already become too weak to fight back. He'd become thinner too. I realized that he cut himself off from the world as well just to accompany me in my forced isolation in the rotting house. Neither of us slept. Neither of us ate. We often got the electricity shut down by the companies from not paying, and it was only when we were threatened on being evicted when Roy slowly picked up the his contacts and deals he'd left behind him to make money once again.

It was during my second escape when I finally freed myself from that prison of a house. I'd went out and gotten myself thoroughly drunk only to wake up in yet another strange house, only this time an hour away from Hull. I was in York then with the things that I needed with me all in a bag that wasn't mine but smelt familiar. In the bag, the photo of my parents that was hidden in my drawers at Roy's house, along with a few other trinkets that I'd gotten in my last years of schooling when my parents were still alive, when all was well. It wasn't until I ended up in this damned hospital when I'd found out who had gone back to Roy's house and gathered my things before sending me off after said-person found me in that alley behind the bar, knocked out cold. But you all already know who it was, so why should names matter at this point? You all also know what happened afterwards, at Francis's house and in his care. But I'll tell you the parts that you don't know.

In a long, grueling process of winning my heart over, Francis slowly picked up the pieces of who I was before I moved to Hull and gave them to me. Me, being the selfish bastard that I was, decided to slap them back on with tape and thumbtacks instead of allowing them to mend back into me with the time that they needed. So when I received that note at the front door that morning from Roy, which said that there was no running away, I was at a loss of what to do. I tracked him to the hotel he was staying at and slowly creaked the door open to see him sitting comfortably on a sofa, eyes mirroring back the image that the telly before him showed. I'd shut the door and I tried to hold myself together, to tell him to go away and that I was a better person now, honestly. But I could see how twisted he looked by then. By his own hand, he'd turned into something more terrible than what I saw hovering above me in the quiet darks of my bedroom. By then he looked tired and broken, almost sad, but I knew better when he locked the door. We fought, and with my softened self I lost quickly, but I didn't give up. We somehow made it to the bathroom, him forcing me into the most uncomfortable corners of wherever we were at as he usually did when he was preparing to strike. But not that time. No, that time I reached for something, anything behind me, and grasped at something firm and sturdy - a long, thin shaving blade. With him so close and the bathroom turning so suddenly hot and pressing, and the dreafully familiar sound of my zipper being slowly pulled down by strange fingers, I lost it.

You know, they never figured out who killed him. He was supposedly killed by someone he didn't provide to, as street rumors said. But I was the bastard that killed him. I first slashed his neck and was pleased in the chaos that I was in when he gurgled, by then already in his own blood. So then again, to his cheek, then to his arms and chest and thighs. I was deranged and mad, uncontrollably lost to the point that when I finally snapped out of it I was at Francis's house. He wasn't home from work yet. I was free to lived a cursed life without anyone knowing what I'd done. I washed myself and my clothes, took the shaving blade that was still firmly grasped in my sticky hand, cleaned it with alcohol and took to attempting the disgusting try at living it through.

Within a week, Roy was back. Go to hell if you don't believe me, but when I was alone I felt his lips brush my ear and heard his voice when I tried to sleep in a bed half-empty. He wrapped his arms around my stomach when I was sitting from behind and pressed me against that terribly cold skin of his, and when I bathed he made my eyes flash red, fooling me time and time again that the water was blood, as sticky and rusty-smelling as his was. Even when Francis held me close as we rested after a long day's toil, I could see a limb behind the barely closed closet doors, still bleeding from fresh gashes. And then where Francis was suppose to be behind me, holding me tight, the warmth would secede to cold and I'd realize that my lover was had already rolled away to the other side of the bed long ago. No, it was Roy who would whisper me into the early hours of the morning that he loved me, in his own little way. He even stays with me here in my hospital room, looking over my shoulder as I write. He now grins and whispers, "don't drag the letter out too long, Darling," and clamps a cold hand over my mouth. I can't speak.

Francis, do you remember that time when I tried to end it all? I did it for you. I _told_ you that I was doing it for you. I can live with Roy, but even now not with myself. Not after what I did to you. You should have left me there to die.

I plea guilty as charged.  
>Arthur Kirkland<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

_As a journalist,_ it was only natural to check out the story that was to be covered before actually covering it. And because of this, Antonio Fernández Carriedo was out and about in the streets of Hull. His shoes clicked down the streets and alleyways, writing notes here and there when a willing soul told him a few things. But for the most part, all he did was saunter down the streets and take in the atmosphere. Describing settings in his works was as vital as blood to his style, which was more like story-telling than anything else. But with that small quirk he gained many vivid readers, so the newspaper he worked for only kept raising his salary until he could afford four houses that spread over England, Wales and Spain. Not to say that he was the type to keep all his money to himself though. Antonio was the kind of man that held a blind faith to those who needed help, even though said people would normally be irreversible in society's eyes. So you could only imagine what the Spaniard thought when he cut a corner into a dirtied young man hunched against the shadow-painted brick walls.

The first thing that Antonio noticed was the Briton's hands. They looked terrible, knuckles scabbed over and black from bruises. The Spaniard slowly pulled the other's chin up to take a long look at the blonde's face, which contained a pair of smoky, shut eyes, a busted lip and a pair of prominent eyebrows ("orugas" was the Spanish word that came to mind). The bruises and cuts looked too old to have been made that exact day, or even the day before, but when he looked back at the man's hands he saw that there was still some new blisters and such. Though a normal person would have never considered doing such a thing, Antonio gave up to his swell of sympathy and gathered the man into his arms. With that, they were off to the car and the journalist's home. He didn't necessarily expect a dozen thank-yous from the young man, but he would have never guessed that the stranger would leave without a word, only with a scrap of paper that contained his good friend's address that happened to be the head cameraman for a well-acclaimed local news station based in York, Francis Bonnefoy.

* * *

><p>Above him was a sky of blue and grey, below him a waterwash of black. His eyes groggily opened, stinging and fogged with a blur that inflicted them, and he thought, <em>am I in heaven? <em>It took him a moment to figure this thought out before he slowly concluded that he was indeed not in heaven. It was much too cold for it to be heaven, and he was so tired. It took him a few more moments before he finally realized that he wasn't breathing. This confused him, and it also took even longer for him to figure out.

But he did. And with that, as if jolted awake by a golden lion's roar in the early-birthed hours of the morning, his muscles tensed and his oxygen-deprived lungs instantly heaved for air. Instead of getting air, they got water. Bubbles raced each other to the surface, escaping a display of thrashing limbs. The man was suddenly blind of direction in his inner chaos, first swimming down and burying himself underneath more waterly pressure before he finally realized the additional weight and flailed his way upward. The soft crepuscular rays of artificial light broke through the surface of the water just slightly, the reflection of ripples distorting his face and flawless skin just before the surface broke and Francis breathed.

At that moment he felt something that he immediately dismissed. Was going to the surface any better than staying down below? It was so gentle, so calm in the river. He could feel his sleepy body get gently nuzzled by a barely-moving current, and his eyes begged to be shut to hide themselves from a quilt of heavy blue that somehow reminded him of ripe blueberries and their undertoned taste in the late French countryside mornings. But no, the Parisian knew that if he decided to rest in such a beautiful place that there were consequences: Suffocation, death. Humans did not belong in such conditions, sleeping underneath the stars and riverbeds to rest their beaten bones. They were made imperfect, and in that respect were not able to come in contact with the perfect, because once the perfect comes the imperfect must leave.

However, there are already perfects out there, and perhaps he could have even achieved said perfect in the onyx skirts of Lady Death's embraces. But ignorance is bliss, so they say. Man continues to make decisions, to face things that have incomprehendable outcomes, just as Francis did as he coughed out water on the river's shore and crawled to the streetside before flipping over onto his back to try to regain breath. In all his panic to stay alive, he'd sadly forgotten that life may have been easier to bear if he had drowned. But being oblivious to what sort of situation he had gotten himself into as of that very night he only managed to noticed a faintly familiar landmark that splayed itself over and across the river, the Scarborough Railway Bridge, before heaving himself up and trudging towards his car. The vehicle welcomed him in it's metallic embraces, for the door was already open, gaping and bringing in the fog of the night - a mouth inhaling smoke. Dangerous. Francis didn't think of why the door was open, or why he had just nearly been drowned from a swim he didn't remember taking. He didn't even remember driving there to the river.

The door hung outward yet still as he stood in front of it in confusion, the car before him open to the biting, moth freckled cool and perplexing lights from street lamps, the aggressive, tall-standing iron poles curving like a hook and spilling yellow-golden blood to the streets below. And how they buzzed and hissed, the glass-sheathed lights causing unsuspecting flies to drop down like fishing bait into the asphalt sea below. Francis snaked up to the high-leveled driver's seat of his black chariot, a fairly new SUV, and after resting a few moments more and rubbing the remaining water that blurred his eyes, to home he drove in ghastly white, shivering skin, grey and bright blue from the lights of the dashboard before him.

Something was wrong. Of course there was, as the man had woken up in a place he didn't remember getting to, a mile from home, but as he pulled his car into his house's driveway his blurred sky-wash eyes couldn't help but notice the already opened garage door and striking cast of shining lights within the house's walls. This was not normal. The lights were always off by eleven at night, so why were they on now? Why was the garage door open? He didn't bother to park all the way in the garage as he'd intended before - instead, feeling his pulse hammer the back of his head, his feet carried him hastily through the front yard and to the front door. The grass sunk down in his feet and the bushes seemed to glow from how their leaves wore moon liquid dew, the parlour light snapping through the window above and shedding them in faint god rays through fog.

As soon as Francis entered and shut the door he reeled back and slumped his back against the wall, out of breath. His muscles were weary, sight blurred, nose, cheeks, ears and knuckles pink and raw from the icy night breath's needles pinning his clammy, sick-looking skin, but he dared try his voice by calling out a querying "mon chéri?"

Nothing.

"Hello?" A shudder ran through him, more from the cold that his damp clothes brought him than the fear that lured his feet slowly through the licorice-smelling hallway to the master bedroom.

The light was off. In all the other rooms the lights were on, allowing nothing to be hidden, everything to be seen out in the open, but in the master bedroom the light was off. All that was visible in the room was the lamp next to the doorway, and a little further on the foot of the bed. Sheets were gathered in a small mass at the footboard, most of the pushed so far in that they were caught between the wood and the mattress.

Trembling fingers slid against the wall, searching for the light switch. For a sickening moment the flash caused his eyes to squeeze shut, the pulsing in his head drumming harder, until he blinked several times and finally chanced a look at the bed. What came next was a yell, running footsteps, even the milky drops of tears. Arthur.

Oh, his beloved folds of beryl foliage in the mornings, his dry remarks and bland tea in the afternoons, his Arthur, and the way that his jaws unlatched and let out perfectly welled yawns before bed. Francis had been missing his Arthur - he wasn't there most of the time, only a blank canvas in the fog under a buzzing street lamp a mile away, at the bottom of a river. The Briton had turned silent, unresponsive. His pupils ran from their center-placed cave at the sight of bright light, but drew in and dotted in the dark. Francis had thought he was sick, maybe tired from school. But this was the night when he knew that his lover was indeed not sick, ill, exhausted.

Arthur was ripped apart. The blonde tried to clean the man's head with a pillow sheet, to try to find where the cut was, but it was hard. All of the sweet cherry that topped the Briton's faded winter skin had stained. It was left on too long, left pouring from a faucet of fractured skull and heavily matted strands of wheat that was now all but grain sticky and dark erubescent.

Discovering the helplessness of drying off his face, Francis gathered a long, wavering, shaky breath and stepped back. The colour nearly visibly drained from his face when it hit him - he was so tired. He took a few more steps back, eyes widened and focused so desperately at Arthur, trying to keep awake, that his vision blurred in and out of being able to see. And with that, he remembered. The heaviness in his pocket. A phone.

* * *

><p>It hadn't taken very long for the police to come. A pair of fine-boned fingers tapped across a glowing cell phone screen messily, at first messing up a simple three digit number, and then again once more, before the call was finally put through. "Help," Francis said, voice panicked. And help came, soon enough to take Arthur away safely and late enough to never see the dampness that the Frenchman's clothes had held that night, already replaced by other clothes, this time very warm. The damp ones were cast in the living room, blindly guided atop the sofa, as he made his way hurriedly into the kitchen and sought around the counters a certain card. Where was the card?<p>

The scrap of paper still was not found when the sound of sirens blared in the front of the house. An Adam's apple rose as he swallowed nothing - his mouth was dry, sticky - and his feet sent him stumbling to the front door. It swung open, and almost instantly a man, no, two, plunged into the light of the house and looked at the mess that Francis was.

"Bedroom," the frog croaked, pointing down the hallway, where now the men were jogging through. It was a nickname that always made Francis smile, chuckle even. Frog. He had no warts, his skin held no tone of green, and though he could leap rather far and high, his toes certainly were not webbed.

All Francis could seem to do was wring the open doorway with his hands, trying to keep himself on his feet despite the sudden rush of people and lights around him, the questions that rang in his ears from men in black - _how long ago was it when you found him?_

_I don't know,_ he said back, and he could of sworn that he said it out loud, but he must not have. The words only rang in his skull, not through the animated air that bounced about him.

The stretcher was being carried through the parlour room now, and the two men in black casted their eyes to the man that was strapped to it. "Dear Gott."

Francis burst into tears.

Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt were policemen in York. Though Ludwig was never very fond of his older brother's friend, the man that he remembered seeing at home in the kitchen with the albino, laughing and talking about things high-schoolers did, it never quite grew beyond a faint dislike, a bad taste. And after all, the three of them saw a lot of each other. Francis, working for the news, often contacted them on business terms, and through that Ludwig began piecing little personal details about the Frenchman that he hadn't cared to in his grade school years; he wasn't very subtle in his ways, but he made up for it by being a good man at heart.

"Gilbert," Francis pleaded, shaking his head. "Help me find... something."

The self-acclaimed Prussian leaped to his friend's side, pulling the other up with an arm around his chest. "What is it?"

The tallest of the three, blue eyes casted down, couldn't bring himself to look at his other blonde counterpart. "I'm going into the bedroom to fill out the report." His words were discarded, but it wasn't like that mattered. He only shuffled out of his brother's way as Gilbert led Francis into the kitchen in search of the card before making his way down the hall.

"A business card," Francis huffed, all of this visibly taking a tole on him. He was falling to pieces, all of the energy that held him together tumbling down like spiraling towers descending to the ground. "For Alys Loisel."

* * *

><p><strong>Translations;<strong>  
>Orugas is Spanish for 'caterpillars'.<br>The rest you should have an idea of.

**Ending comments; **This chapter took me ages to write! It's not very long, but as I wrote it I also was trying to set up many things, so hopefully it'll all come together in the end. Updates will probably be slow, but it's helped that I've _finally_ organized how everything is going to go. I should really do that for Something Like Seeing, haha.


	3. Chapter 3

_It was only until he exited the premises_ when he let out a long, tired breath. The questioning on the police's part had been much too long, and after they discovered that Francis knew not of what had taken place in the household, they let him leave on the understanding that he would be needed to be questioned again eventually. This was apparent, since they knew that what the Frenchman was telling them wasn't the complete story. He hadn't told them about the river.

A mere thought about the river sent him in a panicky fear. The idea of it was horrific to him, something straight out of a physiological thriller, waking up in a lake without knowing how you'd gotten there, only to return home to find your loved one beaten. This was what nightmares were made out of, and he only stood in the dark, waiting to hear a set of heels come from behind and tell him that he wasn't needed anymore in this twisted dreamland, that he could wake up and go back home. And the click of heels did come, but the words that came afterwards were not the ones he desperately wished for.

"I called Antonio" were the words, and Francis wasn't quite there mentally to react in any way.

_Antonio, _was all he thought to acknowledge it.

After a quiet sigh, Francis finally looked at Alys with vague detachment and fished a box of cigarettes from his trench coat pockets. He hardly ever smoked anymore; as long as he didn't have over three in a day, he didn't get hooked again, and then there was the fact that Arthur always hated it when he smoked. Actually, when anyone smoked. As he got to know the Briton better he began to see how the man would steer clear of anyone holding a lighter on a sidewalk, and if he came face-to-face with a person tapping ash off their cigarette he'd flinch. Flinch. Francis could never seem to figure it out, but it made for good teasing, which Arthur responded less than enthusiastically to.

His lighter flicked at the cigarette, the flame licking until it's tongue sent the object's tip ablaze for a brief second before dying down. Even without a puff his fingers had stopped trembling; they'd been doing so since he grabbed the pillowcase to try and wipe the blood from Arthur's face. There was just something so soothing about having the lethal thing in his hands, having it there to move about his long fingers, just a little object to toy with.

Alys only wrinkled her nose at it, obviously superior for such acts of 'self-harm', as she put it. _It's like committing suicide, but deciding to make it more painful over a longer period of time, _she would say. Perhaps she was right, too. Her fingers drew something from her own pockets, her phone, and it burned light to her face through the dim streetlights after she ghosted a finger over it's surface. The screen turned to Francis as he was in mid-inhale, but he still averted his blue eyes from his shoes to look at it's screen. 4:18am. "He's in town, and he's willing to put up with you until this is all settled with."

He exhaled, lips parting and eyes already half-shut, lids hazy and darkened. The white near his blue irises were still red from rubbing too often, as he always did when stressed. "I can't stay with you?" This was an obvious no, but they both knew that it wouldn't be Francis if he didn't at least try. And he wanted so badly to pretend that everything was fine, that nothing happened and nothing ever would, as they stood in front of the police station, in Europe, in this tiny little world. In the grand scheme of things, if he acted like this was normal, would it matter? Everything else would move along anyways, it was impossible to stop that small fact.

"No." She said it just as she'd said everything else, straight to the point and as disconnected as Francis was at the moment. Her phone was tossed in her purse. "I'll drive you there since you don't have your car."

Ah, that was right. He'd rode with her going to the police station when she finally made it to the house. It was funny, how consoling she'd been in the house, too; Alys had wrapped her arms around Francis and he shuddered and quaked, struggling to compose himself. He probably wouldn't have been able to do so without her whispering those small I'm sorries and it'll be okay's near his ear as he buried his face in her shoulder. It was amazing, how the two of them could gain external neutrality so soon after it happened. One would be in disbelief, hearing what had happened if they didn't actually see it, since now it looked as if they were standing off rather than simply arranging a carpool for a quaint sleepover.

"Alys." Francis dropped his hand from his face and tapped on the cigarette, letting little flecks of orange and gray fall through the empty that surrounded them. The smoke from it rose up, transforming into one and a million things on it's way, when finally the Monagasque slapped it out of his hand and stomped on it with her high black stilettos. She was especially irritable right then, considering the time and situation; Sometimes just being around her cousin would set her off. The man just rubbed his fingers together, only grateful that he got the edge off. "I woke up in the river."

No reply. Alys, tall, but still not as tall as him, stood with him and stared patiently.

"I don't know how I got there. I remember going to sleep, and when I woke up, I was sinking in the river. So I got out and got in my car, my car was there with the door open, and I drove home, and I... then I found Arthur..." Francis kept staring at the floor right ahead of his shoes, the words coming slowly. His tongue felt thick, dry, heavy, like what he was confessing was something immoral or wrong.

"And then you went home, saw Arthur, and you must have panicked. But you wanted to get out of those uncomfortable clothes, did you not? So after you called, you changed? And of course waited in the living room; you didn't want to go back in the bedroom." Alys looked past her cousin as she murmured to herself, picturing it all. She knew Francis well enough to deduct what he'd do. Hell, she knew what most people would do in any situation; it was what made her such an intimidating attorney, being able to pick the data from something and get raw fact from it. She was their family's little Holmes, as he'd always call her when she came over to his house in her teenage years, able to tell if he'd bedded a woman two nights before just by the the colour socks he decided to wear, how long it took him to smile, so on and so forth.

Francis nodded, and she only hummed, something in her mind working. Possibilities, possibilities. Not enough data.

"Did you do it?"

If anything could have snapped at least a bit of energy into him, it was that question. Francis looked up at the woman and shook his head. "No, of course not!" And after a moment, his eyebrows drew in, curving up and scrunching in as if in defeat. "I don't know. I don't remember anything. I just know that I would never, ever want to on purpose. I love Arthur."

The car ride was long, and short. Long in distance, short in time. Francis sat in the passenger seat, trying to settle in the seat, and he watched the world get trampled by the wheels of the car. The vehicle was suddenly a chariot drawn by monolithic steeds, their pelts stone that grated into dense black fog as they moved on. The wheels were drawn high up on iron as thin as corset strings, and the cart flamed, scarring entire countries black as it moved. There seemed to be nothing else but the car moving forward, the dashboard glowing, his fingers holding on his jacket, the hum of the radio, and Alys of course, her head mantled by a high neck not even inching to the side to see how her dear cousin fared on their journey to Antonio's. It was long in distance, short in time. The host on the radio began talking, and Francis tuned in on it, paying attention to the man's voice, not his words. It was an hour drive to Antonio's, but it seemed like five minutes, for time didn't seem like a legitimate concept anymore. Francis had no time in the world at all, as it was all stolen from him. So in a way, he had all of the time too. He was timeless, so in turn, he was forever.

He could have rode in the chariot forever. This was all a dream anyway, one that he couldn't seem to wake himself up out of. Francis briefly wondered why, and then lightly pinched the pale underside of his wrist. Pain. He felt silly then and wondered why he was acting in such a way. But though he realized his foolishness, he still thought strange things, such as, _if this is a dream, Alys is a kitten_, and then he'd look over at her just to see if she did indeed turn into one because of the simple idea. But still atop her black leather throne she sat, holding the reins of the horses as they drove ever on.

And when the nightmarish animals had almost worn down to nothing, the wisps of black as thin and whipping as cursive calligraphy on ripped strips of paper, the trampling hooves once again died down to the slow halt of the car. They'd pulled into Antonio's driveway, and Francis, realizing this, gripped onto reality more than ever. A scourge of thoughts pillaged his head at that moment, about Arthur and how the Briton's blood had covered the bedpost wood, his pearly fingertips decorating the side of the stretcher as he was moved to the ambulance. The insects near the hissing street lamp by the river, though to him he would have thought that it wasn't the lamp that was doing the hissing at all. It was all the air, the thick sea of uncertainty and caveats that were making his muscles stiff and lungs tight.

Francis loved him with a fire orange blight. It was twisted somehow, their relationship; it had always seemed so, but the two ignored it as they grew stuck between red and a bright blare of white. Had anything ever been normal between then? Once it had been, surely, but not as of late.

The pair of flaxen-haired cousins, weary-eyed and whispered at by the temptations of sleep, stumbled out of the car and edged near the front door of the house. Before they even knocked it opened, spilling warm lights onto their faces, partly blocked by the figure of a man that stood in the doorway. The man backed away, giving them space to step in, and finally it was possible to make out Antonio's face, his deep olive skin and gentle eyes. "_Padre eterno,_" he mumbled, face downcast and sad at the sight of his friend. It was just to be concerned as well, for Francis, to put it lightly, looked most troubled. "Come in, come in. Sure is cold, huh? It's suppose to snow in a couple days. Worst storm since the 80's."

Inside of the home, filled with warm browns and reds and strokes of white here and there, they were both rounded into the kitchen even as Alys insisted that she really had to leave. But, well, it was impossible to decline the coffee on her part, and Francis felt mildly content through all his inner remembrances of what he'd seen after getting back from the river. Antonio, in the simplest way to put it, was a bonfire on the beach when the summer night's cold bit your bones. Everyone huddles around it, and suddenly there is laughter, warmth, and life. However empty the beach may seem, there is that bit of light on it's flank that makes up for it, and then everything seems full. Antonio, for as long as the Frenchman had known him, was a person that zapped energy into him whether he liked it or not.

Antonio was careful to avoid the topic of Arthur as his almost lazy casual tone filled up the room, talking about his recent trip to Latin America, specifically Argentina. It had been so long since the Spaniard and Francis had caught up that finally, in the company of his best friend, he finally loosened up and chuckled at the jokes made, added to the stories told, most of which quickly converted to childhood memories that they were spilling to Alys. Most of them were explanations to the trouble they conjured up, like who caused the mysterious dented fender that people woke up to on New Years day. It had been Francis, of course, driving up to one of his high school girlfriend's house at the blundering age of sixteen. And one by one, Alys would guess who it was before they even got far into the tales, saying that it was obvious about what happened due to their expressions and how they chuckled, looked at each other as they looked back to happier times.

However, soon as Alys left, Francis, losing his battle over sleep, yawned and stretched in the kitchen chair he sat in. Antonio shuffled over and collected the coffee cup that Alys had left on the table. The water spouted out of the faucet as soon as his hands came underneath it.

"You can stay here as long as you want, okay?" he said, picking up a dirty plate from the sink as soon as the cup was washed. The man paused for a second, and Francis, the smile that had been on his face now faltering, looked down to examine the table. "I know that it's an hour from your job, but it's better than staying at a hotel waiting for your house to get..."

Francis, sensing that his friend didn't want to say "cleaned up", referring to the mess that his bedroom had been turn into, quickly nodded his head and cut in. "Thank you." So for a moment more dishes were cleaned, more clinking of bowls against forks, and so on.

"So. what did Alys tell you?"

A swish of water, the squeaky sound of plates being cleaned off by a towel. "You woke up to use the loo, and, well, you turned on the light?" It ended in a questioning tone, as if he was asking if he should go on. And the Frenchman was glad that he stopped, too. He didn't wait to hear it again after having had to describe what he saw so many times to the police. Over and over. _How did you react after you saw Arthur? How did you feel? Were you frightened?_

"Yes," Francis said, his voice audible but only just, and Antonio put the dish cloth down onto the counter. It was amazing, how the Spaniard knew exactly what to do when comforting people. He walked over to his blond friend and gave him a hug, pulling him near, which was exactly what Francis needed. Closeness. Solidity. Knowing that there was always a place in your life that you could always go back to and hide at, keeping shelter from the storm. And Bonnefoy wept one more time as he and Antonio kept each other close, just as they'd weathered many losses over the years. They were alike in many ways, one of which was a sense of comfort through physical closeness with another. So when Francis asked if they could both sleep in the living room that night, since he couldn't stand being alone, it wasn't a problem. If for only one day he'd be allowed peaceful sleep before the storm ripped his shelter away, then so be it.

* * *

><p><strong>Translations;<br>**Padre eterno is Spanish for 'father eternal'. It's an exclamatory phrase, one that expresses surprise, fear, etc, akin to 'dios mio'.

**Ending Comments;** Hey y'all! I update stories so fast, no? I could give you excuses, but there have been many over the months, so I'll just give you the most recent one: Skyrim: The Elder Scrolls. And guys, holy fuck. What a beautiful game. After this I'd totally jump on if not for the studying for semester finals I have to do right now.

That is all!


	4. Chapter 4

_His hands were folded behind Francis' neck, _making the Parisian lean down further to deepen the lazy kiss caught between them. Then he let one hand side up so that his fingers could weave through long blonde hair. Everything seemed dimmer now, much more lazy than the fumbling start and fast-paced end. Both of them were men that needed relief, to take off the edge, for they hadn't had the opportunity to bed another for a very long time. But now, as Arthur tilted his head a bit to the side and kissed that reddened bottom lip again, he felt like he'd forever be satisfied. Sure, this night shared with each other would probably forever be ignored afterwords - things would get too awkward otherwise, as they were only roommates, friends, but that suddenly didn't matter. Francis made him feel like he was the only one, and the Frenchman felt the same.

Or perhaps more so. If anything, Arthur was perfectly prepared to carry on as they'd always done the next morning, like he'd all but forgotten Francis' heavy-lidded eyes and slightly parted mouth, oh how those lips of his were so sweet, as if he himself didn't murmur for more and pull the long-haired blonde closer. The Briton was used to discarding such moments. Yes, this would be harder to forget than others, but it wasn't impossible. Francis, however, was different in this sense. He felt hurt, confused when the face underneath his turned and unceremoniously ended their kiss to look to the side. Arthur was done.

The parlour seemed lighter then, as if he'd just realized that the light was on, and back to reality he was taken. At the foot of the couch they rested at were discarded clothes, a single shoe, an office paper peaking out from underneath a pink button-up shirt. And there they laid, a blanket over them and Francis over Arthur, one then pulling away and the latter seeming suddenly uninterested. Was it going to be like this, then? The Parisian had thought otherwise, that maybe they'd get a chance at obtaining something more than roommates, him helping Arthur getting a job and the other in return slowly crawling his way up from the pit of rolling joints and not caring that he'd been in before. Francis knew what sort of person he had to try and help when Alfred contacted him about a man with only his phone number on him, asking for help. He later learned that Arthur had gotten the number from Antonio's house, who had also taken the man in for but a night, but Alfred spoke as much about himself as what Francis knew about Arthur at first - nothing. In this game of trust and hopeful thinking that he and Antonio could somehow help this lost case, he'd forgotten about the other side, his wants and aspirations. Francis never knew what the Briton was thinking, how he felt about him.

So, as the Frenchman came out from underneath the blanket and sat at the foot of the couch, boxers now put on and the rest of his clothes in hand, he thought about this night, and if he really wanted to forget it. And this he didn't. It slowly happened, his blossomed affections, somewhere between Arthur's green forest-like eyes meeting his in the mornings, the surprising smile when they finally found him a job as an assistant editor at the newspaper Antonio worked for - it only happened by the Spaniards good word, but they were all grateful for it. Francis had grown fond of his roommate, not as far as love, but a feeling that expressed it's hope and desire. But what was there to do? He stood, walked to the entrance of the hallway, and chanced a look back at the parlour. Arthur already seemed settled, indifferent, ready to sleep. The curtains were shut. The late, darkened night was ready to be put to rest.

His hand landed on the light switch, but his finger didn't seem to want to lift to flip it off. This would be the easiest time to bring up what had just happened. If they waited any longer to discuss it, it probably wouldn't be discussed at all, only ignored. So after a cautious clearing of his throat, Francis parted his reddened lips, dark from kissing, and said, "are we together now?" And of course, with such a ridiculous choice of words, Arthur opened his eyes and actually raised his eyebrows, as if saying, _you really didn't just say that. _Of all people, the Parisian should know better than to act so uninformed. Plenty of people slept with each other and weren't 'together'.

"I mean," Francis quickly added, cheeks flushing out of frustration at himself. He paused, trying to think of a better way to put it, until he found the right words. "What... does this make us?" Still, it sounded juvenile, but the attempt was better than the last. Arthur hesitated for a moment, and them propped himself up so that his shoulders were propped up against the arm of the couch. And then he stared, expression still partly amused, half questioning. No sarcasm.

"What do you think?"

That was hard to respond to, to say the least. Francis paused, hand now resting on the corner of the wall. "Arthur," he began, now not so elegant with his words as he usually was. How to put it, how to put it? "I'd like-" he stopped himself short mulling over what he was about to admit. Now was as good a time as ever to admit his attractions, so why not? "You mean so much to me. You make my voice weak, my heart stop, and I wouldn't be able to stand what you'd do to me after this if we did nothing more than what we did tonight and forgot about it all. I don't know how you feel or what you think about me, but I know how I do, so if we could just try..." Well, his poetic card that he pulled on people usually worked. This time, however, it only crashed and burned. How humiliating.

He stopped his near-ramble when Arthur nodded his head. The Briton held the blanket nearer to him, as if self-cautious about his bare chest even when Francis had explored its landscapes thoroughly before. "Shut up," he said, quickly and obviously not aware of what he was saying, but saying it anyway. His face had heated at the Frenchman's confessing words, and he looked caught between throwing things at Francis from the embarrassment he suddenly felt or admitting his feelings too, though only a little more than moderate they may have been. "O-Of course. We could... try." Then he laughed quietly, a pleasant sound. "Git," he whispered as well, though it was quiet enough for Francis not to hear. Though an insult it was, the way Arthur said it was actually rather endearing.

Francis, on the other hand, still felt a bit flustered. Though thoroughly uncharacteristic it was on his part, he had never quite had to face something like this before in his life, and was unsure as to how to go about dealing with the situation. "I never realized how small that couch is," he admitted, a bit sheepishly. "Would you like to stay in my bedroom tonight?"

"Okay," Arthur said quietly, and wrapped the blanket around himself before heading off to the bathroom to clean himself up. "G-Get my pillow, will you?"

* * *

><p>They were sitting in the kitchen, discussing work before furious knocks pounded on the front door. Francis looked much better than he had the night before, though there was still a silent sullenness about him, but he still remained positive with someone so warming as Antonio near him. They were to go to the hospital where Arthur was in about an hour after Alys gave the thumbs up, since the Briton was still under intensive care, but it was taking a strangely long time for her to call. Antonio stood up, face concerned, and went to open the door to none other than the British police. The woman that had been knocking was someone that he didn't know, but the Spaniard could see the familiar face of Ludwig off to the side. "What's wrong?"<p>

"We are here to arrest Francis Bonnefoy," the woman said, and walked past a very stunned Antonio, who looked at Ludwig for explanation. The German only shook his head and looked clear over the Latin to watch the policewoman lead a cuff-bound Francis to the doorway. The Frenchman looked just as stunned as the Spaniard, who, now thoroughly upset, looked back and forth between the two police officers and demanded a "what is this all about?"

"I'm sorry sir, but we can't talk about it. With the press, aren't ya?" It was now her turn to shake her head. "You'll be able 'a write all'bout it after we release more information." Ludwig had already made it back into the police car and was starting up the engine. How it seemed to roar, though it was only a purr to everyone else's ears. Caught between frustration and desperation, Antonio looked at Francis and put on the most serious look that had ever been drawn out from his carefree self.

"I'll see what this is all about, and I'll visit you in the police station when I can. Okay?" Francis only shook his head, as if not hearing his friend's words. The Parisian looked terrified, at a loss, unable to think. "_Okay?_" And before he knew it, they were gone, pulling out of his driveway and heading back to where they came from - York. He stood there for a few moments, looking furiously at the road and the unfairness of what the police officer had presumed, that he only seemed to care to get a good story. Is that all he was worth? Not as a friend that wanted to help someone he deeply cared about, but as a writer to another entertainment-filled report about the comings and goings of stories that would be forgotten as soon as they were recognized? _This. This_ was unacceptable.

However, however much he wanted to do at that moment as he stomped into his house, ready to call his editor, smear the police's good name, destroy the injustice, he drew in a deep breath and realized that he didn't have the power to do any of that. And even if he did, it wouldn't be just. So, instead, he sat back down at the kitchen table and clenched his fists on its surface, wondering what he _could_ do.

He jumped when the phone rang. He stood in the kitchen for a minute, hoping that it wasn't Alys for the fear of getting upset at her, though it wasn't her fault, but as he stepped closer towards it he read the caller ID. Alfred Jones.

"Hello, Alfred?" Antonio said, voice quiet. His throat itched from yelling at Francis so loudly, though he didn't mean to raise his voice so far.

The man that replied sounded cheery as always. "Buddy, how are things? Oh, oh, wait till I tell you-!" Alfred sounded completely out of breath, he was so excited. "I'm back in England! So maybe I can drop by tomorrow after I get to my hotel? And we can see how the old man's doin'! And Francis, too!"

Antonio gathered his breath, remaining silent. After a few seconds passed, Alfred, sounding much less eager, asked, "hey, you there?"

* * *

><p>"I... I can't believe it."<p>

They stood in the hospital room, Antonio and Alfred, next to the occupied white bed. The curtains were drawn around the, shielding themselves and the frail figure of a broken man from the other occupants in the room, along with the rest of the world. There was a ballad playing, an undertoned and sullen one, made up of the hushed television and I.V., a nurse's low voice, the faintest breaths that Arthur took.

"And as far as we know, nobody noes who does it. Could have been anyone. A burglar?" Antonio shook his head. "Who knows." He'd just finished telling Alfred about how Arthur was found, what seemed to have happened.

Alfred, Francis and Antonio were all friends, though the last two would not have known Alfred if it wasn't for Arthur. The second time that the Briton was picked up, it was by the cheerful blue-eyed blonde, and he was in Hull to actually try and find his old friend from school. They'd gone to the same high school, Alfred an exchange student staying for a year and Arthur the senior who knew all the strings, and how they danced once pulled. They became close friends, or at least close friends to as far as the uninformed eye could see, but their connection was swiftly cut as soon as Arthur's parents died and he was sent to Roy.

After finding Arthur, Alfred found a scrap of paper in his wallet, a phone number that he swiftly called. Who's number was it? Francis', of course. The paper was later claimed by Antonio, who said that it was his, just a jotted note of his French friend's number when he got a new cell phone. The American had called the number, and he soon arrived with Arthur to the Parisian's house, and from there they sorted out how the Briton had obtained the number. Francis recognized Antonio's writing, and from there, they decided that if Arthur was up to it, that he could stay with Francis and perhaps help pay with the rent until he finally saved enough money to buy the house, which he eventually did indeed do. It was quite an effort, but eventually they decided, and that night Alfred dropped by Roy's to gather Arthur's things, along with give his old friend a few mementos from the time they spent their senior year together, so that he wouldn't be forgotten.

"Francis," Alfred croaked, still looking at the man in the hospital bed before him. "What if he did it?"

It sounded rather like a statement than a question. Antonio only looked at his friend in disbelief. "Of course he didn't! He loves him, he wouldn't do something like this."

"But think about it! How could he've slept through that! _Look at him!_"

To be frank, there wasn't much of Arthur to see now. Half his face was covered in bandages and gauze, his arms were bruised, skin pale and clammy. He looked like he could dead, how faint his breathing was.

"Alfred," Antonio said, his voice urgently low despite how far the other man's had risen. Alfred's chest rose and fell unevenly, now staring at the Spaniard with unreasonable anger in his eyes. "Get a hold of yourself."

"Get a _hold_ of myself?" He yelled, and Antonio stood up. He wasn't about to take this from anybody. "You can't be serious. You... you can't see it?" His voice was more like a throaty snarl now. "Figures - you don't want to believe it! After all, you are friends with him. Stop being so retarded and think about it! It was him, he-"

He looked ready to yell even more, but the brunette turned and pulled the curtains back enough to slip through. His cheeks were flushed, ears red, and it didn't help when the other patients, the nurse, and the doctor who had just walked in were staring at him. After an awkward moment everyone either cleared their throat, coughed or resumed talking to whoever they were conversing with before. The doctor only hesitated before walking to Alfred. "You were here to see Arthur?"

"Yes," Antonio said faintly, and he was about to apologize, but the doctor continued talking.

"I guess you'll want to know how he's been doing," she said, and nodded at the nurse for him to go attend to Arthur, which he did. "He could be doing better, I suppose. Sleeping most of the time, and when he is awake he doesn't do much, just looks around, at the visitors chair, things like that. I don't think that the head concussion he got did much damage other than the cut, but we have to wait till we can be sure." Antonio's grimace deepened when she furrowed her eyebrows together and leaned forward. "Whatever it was that happened probably wasn't very good for him." She tapped her head. "My nurses say that the reason he sweats so much is because he's got a temperature, but he just doesn't have one, and it only happens when he's asleep. Last night he got dehydrated from it. I think it's because of nightmares."

The doctor leaned back again, an expression of concern on her face. "It's slowing down his recovery, to be honest. I hope that they find who did this. Poor bloke. Do have a nice day." And then she went through the curtains to most likely tell Alfred the same thing. Antonio mauled over the doctor's words as he stood in the room, just for a moment, before he made his way out. Down the hallways, into the elevator, and after a tired exhale, pressed the lobby button.

* * *

><p><strong>Ending comments;<strong> Fresh off the press! I'll be sure to go through this a bit later today or tomorrow, but I wanted to get this chapter out to you guys. /Rubs hands together/ Trust me, everything is just getting started~. Anyways, a bit short, I know, but under the circumstances I thought it would be unwise to continue along with what happens next since I planned that for the next chapter. I'm set on keeping this story nine chapters, so, yep. Hope you guys liked it!

ALSO! I would really, really love some suggestions / constructive criticism on my writing, story progression, etc. Be as judging as you can be, really, because I'd really like any sort of feedback on how to improve. Thank you!


	5. Chapter 5

As the elevator veered down the shaft chasm, ropes strung high unraveling and bringing him closer down to earth, Antonio leaned his back against the the metal and stared at his distorted reflection that bent and twisted across from him. There was once a time when Francis and him would hike up to the hazy hills of Spain that had rested to overlook the city, where the both of them would sit and use their hands as visors against the sun. "Sometimes," the blonde once said, after he had regained his breath. He never did very well climbing up, but surely, would catch his breath once on the top. "I think that there's always someone very near me, keeping me safe."

And then Antonio bunched his knees against his chest, rested an elbow atop his knee, and caressed his face with a hand. His green eyes looked on, however, waiting.

"Silly, isn't it? Sort of like a guardian angel, but much closer. More like us."

This made the Spaniard smile rather jokingly and said, "If this is about helping you get away from that bouncer last night, don't mention it," which lead to a well of laughter burst from both of the men's chests.

The city was basking out in the sun before them, but the hills always seemed better. The refreshing breezes, bushes murmuring as they moved, an occasional animal scuttling at their feet. The sky, and expanse of - metal. All too soon, the swimming memories of summertime gave the metal back its place, and a moment after, the elevator door opened. With that came a more timely thought: _Alfred will get better. He's just angry._

From the cool shell of the elevator and glow of stilled buttons he stepped out into the hospital lobby. Oddly enough, it was much more emptied than when he had last seen it, save the desk keeper and a janitor that worked away at the pristine floors. There was a strange gelid pulse of unease that made his arm hairs jump, though at that moment it seemed provoked pointlessly. However, it did succeed in urging him to make it for the door faster than he intended to. For a moment Antonio mentally felt stone-still, turned off to emotion, before from either adrenaline or his visit to Francis, probably both, he held a hand tightly onto his face and tried to force the warning of tears back into their ducts. By then he was out of the lobby and outside, not heeding the passing cars, or the man that pushed the doors out of the hospital behind him.

"In a rush?" The stranger said, still standing behind the Spaniard. He did not reply, however, so after a moment the man resumed. "I was waiting for you in the lobby, but perhaps you didn't see me. You seemed like you were in a rush."

"I didn't see you," Antonio said, and turned after giving his eyes one last press and nose one last wipe. His hand had dropped over his mouth now, more thoughtfully than anything, and regarded the tall figure in front of him vaguely. "Sorry about that."

The man in front of him stood tall, much taller than Antonio himself, both in stature and the fact that his spiked champagne hair added a few inches. He seemed to be outlined against the hospital background, more like a ink drawing filled in with color dropped somewhere in the real world, because it was difficult to focus on anything else but him. Everything behind him meshed together in a jumbled slop of color. However, it took the Spaniard a few more moments to finally draw away from that fact and take in the details. A scar that ran down the right side of his forehead, while the fairer had the sun's light upon it. A pair of green eyes, like a lazy set of trees rolling over some green Irish steppe. The stranger was clad in a long trench coat, beige slacks, and a blue and white scarf that didn't match the season's warm balm. And lastly, as if it was an afterthought, a long, thin, silver pipe that had settled at the side of his mouth. It shifted for a moment, zipping its way to the other side of his lips, before it was fished out, trailing its blood of grey whispers rising in the air behind it.

"Perfectly fine." The pipe was tapped, scattering ashes down that seemed to vanish before resorting to rest on the pavement. Then he smiled a bit, tapped the embers out, and slipped it into a hidden pocket within his coat. There he remained for a second or two, smiling, eyes reverted at the ground as if he were gathering words, before resorting himself with an "I can help you."

Immediately, his mind jumped at Francis. How to help Francis. "Really?" Was all he managed, as he was rather stunned, before his mind wrapped around the spoken words, this strange man. How did he know about Francis? Did he have anything to do with what happened to Arthur? After a more deep pair of green eyes settled on the other, Antonio added, "How do you know anything about it?"

"Perhaps," the man said, and Antonio remembered the word having spilled from his mouth before. It sounded eerie to the Spaniard. It was said too slowly in his ears, so accustomed to fast-paced conversations and fond-spoken drivel. "I could better explain to you somewhere else."

"Black coffee, thanks," Antonio found himself saying to the waitress. She nodded, smiled, and traipsed away in her pretty pink heels. The cafe wasn't very filled, only a few people at the corners of the room with laptops pulled out atop the tables. He and the man had chosen a secluded table as well, not in the farthest reaches of the odorous shop. Now that they were in a more occupied space, the stranger didn't seem so bold against the world, though there was the redolence of some flutter-bird fancy that had escaped him long ago. When they were left to themselves, Antonio held the edge of the table and asked for what seemed like the umpteenth time, "may I know who you are now?" Patient as always, but the sincerity his voice held was running out. He wanted to trust this man, whoever he was, for now. Just as ever, Antonio was willing to listen to anyone.

At this, Abel let out a held breath and seemed to drop a stiffness that Antonio didn't realize was there. "Abel Morgens," he answered, and leaned back in his rosewood chair. "And you?" The latter was said like a little afterwards, as if it was forgotten.

"Antonio," the Spaniard replied, which was met by a shake of hands.

After they drew away, Abel folded his hands on the table and narrowed his eyes. "I do not want to waste time, so I'll tell you everything now. Hull isn't a place that I'll be staying in very longer." There was a sense of bleakness in his voice, like it was something to grieve about, before he composed himself again and continued. "I know I said that if you came here with me that I'd answer any questions you may have, but there is one condition: You don't ask how I know these things, or why I'm telling you."

Antonio only blinked, and nodded. Perhaps a nervous swallow bumped down his throat, but at this point he was far too curious about what Morgens had to say.

"There was once a murder in York. I believe you might know about it, actually. Roy Kirkland, a Scottish man, born in Edinburgh."

"Arthur's brother," the brunette said, acknowledging it. "Shaving blade, hotel room. The story on it ran through the newspaper I work for."

"Then you should know about how uncertain the police were in convicting who they did."

An unconscious, uncomfortable shift. A few taps on the floor, rhythmic and distracting. "He _was _found guilty."

"But we're not here to discuss him," Abel said so quickly, almost cutting off Antonio. When his voice caught up to him, however, he started again, this time more slowly. "A crime scene that bloody could only be so absent of the killer's faint marks if the stars lined up to make it so, really. To make him undetected for so long... I wish Arthur had got caught. He suffered so much for what he'd done. It would have given him a chance to repent, and to continue to believe in the world's scheme of faults and impending justices. Francis saw the change in him, but didn't know what it was. He thought that Arthur was just missing, but possible to be found and reclaimed, like a, a... a blank canvas, in the fog under a buzzing street lamp a mile away, at the bottom of a river. Arthur didn't pay attention much after what happened, to anything, for his thought had been drawn away by an unseen sensor. You must understand that what he did held no wrongs, nor any rights. He hated his brother because of what his brother did to him, as the ring of hate runs. Roy may have even deserved it. Or maybe he deserved doing what he did."

"Th-that's not possible. Arthur would never-"

"It is not a question of if he would never, since that question is one that is exempt this far in. Nobody will _never_, as everybody _can_. It is only a question if someone _will_."

Antonio only managed to blink. To be able to say a rebellious _"I don't believe you"_ would have brought him a sense of duty to his friend, though distant he was to Arthur, but there was only the feeling of his heart dropping to his stomach, and his stomach winding into the soles of his feet. How did Abel know all of this? And if any of it was true, why was it being told to him, instead of the police? Suddenly it was very, very important to get Francis out of police custody. He felt something jump in his chest, a mixture of anxiousness and pressure. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Remember all that I said," was all that Morgens murmured. Suddenly Antonio felt the fall figure's eyes cast down upon him as Abel rose from his chair. "Take comfort in knowing that whatever you do now, it will only help keep him safe, when he returns."

The Spaniard's mouth went dry. "Who are you?" He asked once again, this time because he felt like the man that stood before him wasn't like anything he knew. Abel Morgens was something else, flittering through the smallest slot of his life, like a drop of water that the dark, parched ground hadn't met for a hundred moons it watched sail over.

Abel stepped back, as if preparing to leave, but stopped and seemed to think better of it. All this time he didn't let his gaze leave Antonio's, but every second what his eyes held seemed to change. Passion, compassion, love and disdain, agony, hate, a lover's blurry stare as a low croon wells in reddened lips. Or maybe it was that fleeting fancy, the slightest nostalgia driving Fernandez up a wall, wanting to be in the presence of this man just a second longer if he would tolerate it. "This is the last I will ever see of Francis before I move on to another," Morgens said. "I have already observed and watched over all of his other pulses, ebbs, his time as it perfumes time. This is _not_, however, what will happen to him - living in a trench devoid of his future, and Arthur living in his own deep oblivion. Three lives have already been taken from one that has fell from life's watch. Though one cannot be saved, two others can, and it is because of you, Antonio Fernandez, that the Story can be stitched to heal. Not without scars, but with less fault than the gaping wound it is."

Antonio couldn't help but fidget in his seat. Another unseen sensor, Morgens, Abel of elsewhere, sat back without explanation after a short, "and nobody wants that, do they?" And afterwards, it took Fernandez coffee and another refill, accompanied with dead stillness and quiet on his part, until he fished out his phone and called the only person he knew to.

"Alys?" The phone static was absolutely terrible.

"Yes? Is this Antonio?" A voice rang back at him, more like a beetle's buzz than anything human. Antonio, somehow recovering from the otherworldly man that sat across from him and his confusing, confusing words, found it in himself to be irritated at his phone.

"Yes. Look, I don't know how to put it lightly, but Arthur killed his brother. Roy Kirkland?" It was said so plainly that even Morgens managed to look taken aback, and then surprised, before settling with amused.

* * *

><p>Alys froze. Her hand was over a book, <em>White Oleander<em>, before her cousin's friend lightly dropped a bomb like it was only a feather.

This changed everything.

"Did you know this before?" She demanded, and a man that was beside her in the bookstore aisle jumped a bit in fright at the suddenness of her heightened voice. "How on earth- how did you even find this out?"

"Well, someone found me, and said that he'd like to help. Um, so he told me."

"Without proof? Wait, where are you? I need to get to you."

"I don't think-"

"No, no." The Monegasque shook her head and pressed the end call button on her phone before rushing out, first from the store and then out of the parking lot, to the place that would give her an answer she needed.

Long thought had been given on everything that had taken place. First, a vast space of time unfilled, somewhere in it containing Arthur's head getting bashed against the head post of his bed, before landing in another place entirely, in a river only to trail back a trodden path right where it started. Francis. There were little doubts, small ideas, that caused Alys to not be completely sure that her cousin had done it, but at this point, what was there to believe? Only the facts - that he didn't remember, Arthur wasn't in any shape to speak, and how every single thing found in the house pointed at Francis. The blood that had been on the Frenchman's clothes, before he threw them off and changed into things that weren't wet. The blood was Arthur's. The manner in which the bed was arrayed. Francis himself, just living with Arthur, sleeping in the same bed. Could it have been a set up to frame him? Perhaps, but for what? What purpose would that serve for anyone?

Her thoughts trailed on to no avail, not inching any close to the truth than the point that they'd already reached: that Francis was guilty. The river was easily explained with irresistible impulse, some slight infliction of insanity, along with being so disjointed by having done such a thing, the mind cleverly blocking it out. However, for such a thing to have happened, Arthur would have had to do something continuously until it built up so much that Francis's last nerve broke. Now that she knew that her cousin had been sleeping in the same room of a murderer for who knows how long, said murderer being in an unknown state of mind the whole time, there was plenty of space to think, as well as confirm: it was Bonnefoy who was guilty.

That still didn't answer the question to what Arthur did to bring it though. Though her and Francis were never close by a long shot, if there was a ray of chance that he could be exempt from a long sentence because of the circumstances under which he committed his crime, she'd find it out, first starting with him himself.

It turned out that he didn't have much to say though. "Nothing would happen."

"You two would just go to sleep, and that was that?"

"No sex, no," Francis admitted, though he said it plainly. He was always casual about such things.

Alys couldn't help but feel a bit bad for the blonde that sat across the glass pane from her. His face held a pale, dismal look, and his orange jacket seemed to be the only thing remotely alive.

"I haven't been sleeping well lately, though. But, Alys, I need to tell-"

"Be quiet," Alys snapped, shut her eyes, and pinched her nose in thought. Tentatively, Francis continued to try to say what he'd been trying to tell her ever since she arrived: "They said that I've been abusing narcotics and sleeping medication Alys. I don't even _have_ narcotics."

This got her eyes to open. Though she didn't take her hand from her face, she was obviously interested. "Were the narcotics in capsules?"

"Pills and syringes. But Alys, I never used them. Arthur had them prescribed to him, the narcotics, and we both used the sleeping pills, but not as much as they were saying I did after the blood test." He shook his head and cupped his mouth with a hand, his reddened blue eyes traveling to the counter that he rested his elbow on. "I just... I don't understand."

The terribly distraught way that he said the last five words got Alys to look up and actually look at her cousin. Of course, once again she'd managed to completely overlook his emotions, as she did with many of her clients. It was always her weak spot. She knew the wealth in feelings, thought and emotion acting together, but it always escaped her. And in this case, it tugged a string somewhere in that churning heart of hers that possessed her to press her hand on the glass. "I think I'm getting closer to figuring this out, Francis. Please, just hold tight, okay?"

Slowly, Francis reached his own hand up and pressed it where her's laid.

"Can you do that for me?"

He nodded quietly. "Yes."

* * *

><p><strong>Ending comments; <strong>You guys better enjoy this - I just spent a few hours of time I should have been doing homework doing this, haha. Naw, naw, jaykay. I'm so happy that I got this done, actually! It's been about time that I finally updated this.

Please comment if you like it, and if you have any questions that probably won't be answered, just drop em' in the reviews as well and I might answer them. Especially with Abel (Netherlands), since I definitely left him up to your imagination. However, I strongly encourage you guys to perceive him in any way you want him too, since that's really the only reason why I put him in, believe it or not.


	6. Chapter 6

**love94ever;** Thanks for the reviews! They are much appreciated. About Abel, however, I'm afraid that I'm not going to be offering much explanation to his character since he's for driving the story along, along with adding more atmosphere, but after Smile, Darling is completed I think that you'll at least get some resolution to his strangeness in the prose.

* * *

><p>Outside, the cathedral of the world acted out its last plays of dawn, and began to initiate the setting curtains that became nighttime. Faced with the end of another monotonous, tiring day, the world slowly fell asleep, and the rest were left in a limbo, caught between the fabrics of the setting sun and the nightmares that awaited behind a grinning crescent moon. Between the creaking green doors and flutters of blackwash shadows that resided in the waiting room, Alys sat in the lobby of the police station, awaiting the arrival of those she'd called upon. Her eyes, a laden blue, sat behind a pair of glasses that rested at the tip of her nose. As she read the book she'd gotten just that day, her hair pulled from her face by a bow that secured it tidily at the back of her neck, her attention wasn't fully on the words printed before her. No, she thought only of Francis, and the guardsman.<p>

_"Has Francis done anything strange while he was here? Said things in his sleep, or ever looked confused, or as if he was trying to remember something?"_

_And then the guardsman squinted, as if trying to rummage through all of the clutter that littered his brain. However, after a while he shook his head, and so Alys turned. She was not out of hearing range, however, when he said, "wait!", calling her back. "We had a bloody hell of a time getting a picture from him. Kept squeezing his eyes shut, or turning his face the other way, and then he'd apologize and say that he was just tired, and the flash hurt his eyes."_

_"Well, that's understandable, if the camera was flashing in his eyes."_

_"But the camera had no flash, miss."_

The last piece of the puzzle.

Distracted, she snapped the book shut and looked at the cover. The picture on it was in grayscale, of a woman turned away and unzipping a beautiful dress. Her hair hung down from her face, unseen to the viewer. After a moment, she flipped the book over, and was met by an explosion of color. Twisting blues, reds, pinks, all seeming from the book, slipping into her lap, melting, freezing, on fire, and then Alys could-

She blinked, and it was gone. Heart beating fast, Alys drew in a long breath and looked at the book's black back before whipping out her phone to check the time, and somehow, it'd turned incredibly late while she was reading. The numbers _1:41_ glowered at her, and she yawned, wondering why she wasn't seeing more colors since she was so exhausted. However, only a few minutes later Gilbert and Ludwig emerged through the front doors, arriving from night patrol.

"You wanted to see us? It's a bit late." Gilbert said, smirking as always, and Ludwig only went to the emptied front desk and signed a paper laying on its surface. Alys nodded, stood, and exited the front door, talking to the other two as they trailed behind in the night.

"I need to get back in Francis's house. I think that there's something there that can settle this once and for all." Alys stopped at the curb and waited for a car to pass before delving into the parking lot and letting the others take lead to the car they were to take. "I'd imagine that you two can help me get in? I thought it best not to try and get in myself."

"Good call; you probably would have gotten your ass kicked off the premises if you tried snooping in," Gilbert replied. They cut through a row of cars and halted in front of theirs, waiting to enter as Ludwig dug in his pockets for the keys. "What do you think is in there though? They all cleared the place out."

Alys looked at the policeman quizzically and got in once the doors clicked and unlocked. "If I'm right, which I usually am, we'll find out who did this."

"Well, that's good," Gilbert replied, buckling his seatbelt, and Ludwig turned the keys to start the car. A long sigh came out of the albino's hair, as if he'd been holding it in this whole time, and he stretched his arms in front of him. "It'll be good to get this all settled. Then Francis and I can grab a drink up at MacKenley's pub again - man it's been a while. Luddie, you should really come! You never wanna come with us!"

The woman in the backseat, staring at the world roll under the trampling hooves of their midnight car, said nothing. Her blue eyes grow darker, perhaps, but never as shadowed as when they arrive and she moved to the bedroom, looked under the cleaned bed, goes through the drawers. The other two leaned casually against the doorpost, making idle conversation about breakfast plans, and Alys slides back the door of the closet and is greeted with an eerie feeling. The chatter continues. Her vision grows fuzzy. She looks over at them, and a funny question enters her head: _Can they not feel it too? _

Alys had always been sensible. To others it would be considered a curse, but in her head, she was gifted with the presence of a mechanical mind. Rarely did any desire pass her heart, other than a passion for the unearthing of answers, or the feeling of a page of a good book turning underneath her fingers. However, a strange feeling that stilled her caused her to inch her gaze up at the closet ceiling, looking up at the shadowy rifts above, and she wondered how on earth she could have been asleep this long. Because this was only a dream, right? A terrible, terrible dream, and it was so confusing and unsolvable that she couldn't wake up from the desire to salve the mystery. That was all this was all was, right? She could wake up now... right?

The pair of glasses that rested on her nose were tipped down once again so that she could look at the exposed flesh of her under wrist clearly. With her other hand, the tips of her thumb and index finger pressed together, merging two manicured nails that loomed over her wrist, slipping down, diving near the twist of blue veins and white skin.

"How do you turn thing thing _on?_" Gilbert growled, his voice heightened in frustration.

Ludwig, of course, added a sensible opinion by saying, "it's not your camera, don't break it!"

Alys stopped. The tips of her nails had barely skimmed her skin before Gilbert snapped her out of, well, whatever that was. "I'm too tired to be doing this," she muttered, for once not agreeing with her own lack of sleep, along with the weird sleep-deprived feelings it brought out of her. However, at least Gilbert found the camera. "Where was that?" she asked, her voice now audible as she stood up and strode to them. Gilbert pouted when the camera was snatched from his hands.

"Next to the lamp on this table. Didn't you see it?"

"Shut up," Alys grumbled, and after pressing the ON button and receiving no response she sighed and plugged it into the charger underneath the end table. "_Much_ too tired for this." After about a minute it charged enough for her to turn it on and pressed the center button. And her eyes indeed grew very, very shadowed, as did her face, and the policemen's faces when they huddled over to look, and then look away.

* * *

><p>Languid was the soaring bird of dark-winged heavens that rustled its wings in Francis' mind, the creature beginning to ponder the thought of gliding into the night to chase out dawn. Dreams, he has found, have not cared to frequent his mind, whether they be behind the curtains of sleep or the hopes of day and sunshine in the courtyard, clinging to his skin as if he were snow only beginning to taste the warmth of spring. For all of his life, Francis considered himself the main artisan of his life, the one that stood to be his muse, his own flexing figure that flaunted against the heavenly blue of the day, or the scarlet sheets of night. However, it was in green eyes that his blue eyes plunged, his thoughts all absorbed in the twangs of sweet summer grass, Arthur's lighted orbs littered with the occasional tire of a day's toil, or an old friend called happiness that often visited. It seemed that the only real dream that Francis then lived was in the eyes of his lover, the beating of his heart as he listened against warm skin at the audience of a telly that talked and talked.<p>

It was in a nightmare that Francis thought he'd been in, or even a dream. But rather, it was something that he knew to be true as well as the presence of the moon and sun and stars: that he loved Arthur, and Arthur loved him. And as he sat on his cot, arms hugging his chest as hey laid on his side, his breath hitting the cold walls, he knew that it was that that tormented him. Somewhere, past the days of seeing Arthur as a body without much recognition of the world around him, Francis could clearly recall a moment of solitude they shared, in which the Frenchman unearthed what was to be the outlet of his life. Somehow, with the snooty, high-chinned, irresistible, and irreplaceable love of his life made small things matter less, the things that always were big for Francis but in the end turned out to be nothing. It was with the Briton where he learned to trust, to spare a bit of humility when it was called for.

So why was it that what they shared tore his heart to strips? He could not place a finger on it himself, but rather shut his eyes and hoped that he'd be reunited soon, and everything would be alright. However, Francis could still breathe, and look skyward, and smile at the jokes of the shoplifter who resided in the cot across from his. He did not yet know.

What he did know was that Arthur wasn't well, and it had been affecting Francis for the longest of times in the strangest of ways. He'd wake up and feel tormented, not rested. At work a constant feeling of restlessness and unease set in his stomach as he filmed away behind the cameras, peering through square digital screens to the news anchors before him. His colleagues had even asked about it, pointing out the shadows of smoke beneath his eyes and gradual hollowing of his cheeks. Francis never could answer certainly himself, but assumed that it was a restless mind before filing out to draw in the comforting breaths of cigarette smoke; He'd gotten into the habit of it naught but a few days before Arthur esd hurt. However, through the grogginess and indirect cravings of his mind, the only hint as to why he was slowly slipping was a sadness that wriggled itself like the plague into his life. And now, it was only the burning fact that he had someone to love and be loved by that continued to beat in his head like hammers driving nails through his skull, because it was so painful and helpless and hopeless that in this world it'd be gone.

The soaring bird may take off, but even as Francis is called out of his sell to attend upon a meeting with cousin Alys on important matters, he knew that the dawn it chase was never really there. What a nightmare.

After having been shuffled out of his cell, Francis was lead to a holding room and given the clothes he'd come to the jail in. The only response to his questioning gaze was a door shut firmly in his face, so he took the hint and dressed as quickly as possible before knocking on the door, letting the others know that he was finished. Someone must have bailed him out until court day, he figured, or some miraculous stroke of luck had fallen upon him. However, an uneasy apprehension in his stomach told him not to trust to hope. Either way, at least he'd be able to maybe see Arthur in the hospital, if it was allowed. Francis didn't get much time at all to think about anything though, since he was spirited away to a police car and promptly driven to the police station, where in an office room with a telly he was greeted by Alys, Gilbert, and a nervous looking Ludwig who quickly took his leave as soon as the Frenchman entered.

The stillness of the room told Francis that this was not an occasion to say his thanks in regards to him getting out of jail, at least for a short amount of time. So he instead clasped his fingers together and said, "well?"

Not the most formal of greetings, but under the circumstances it seemed fitting. Alys stared at him as if expecting him to turn into a flaming balrog at any given moment, and Gilbert stared distinctly at the floor. If there was any place to start, it would be with an explanation as to what was going on.

"Francis," Alys began, and the unfamiliar gentleness in her voice caused Francis to instantly still. The apprehension turned into dread, and quite quietly he sat down in front of her and the police officer when he was offered. "I'd like to offer you your rights before we go on. You don't have to talk about any of this after we view it, and you may even decline the fact that it exists all together. However, it is my duty as chief investigator, and Gilbert as the policeman standing by, to make sure that we are all in this room to watch it through. Nothing will leave this room unless it is by your hand: You have our full confidentiality."

Francis' mouth felt dry. He felt as if his tongue had faded to sand, and it trickled down his throat like an hourglass, causing him to hold his breath.

"The only thing I have to ask you is if you remember any of what you'll see taking place." She then extended a hand out to him and squeezed his arm. "If you don't, it's okay. You'd have already explained the cause of that by you telling me about your drug tests, if that happens."

And the walls slowly swirled like a ballerina twirling in long skirts, the locks of her hair spinning, spinning, in such a grace that she might not even be moving at all. The floor crumbled like stone being torn apart by a quake rattling the bones of the earth. A clock on the wall, above the door, ticked on and on.

"Francis?"

"D'accord."

His cousin picked up a blank disk that had been sitting on her lap and strode to the telly, preparing to put it in. Its metallic glaze beamed like the brightest of moons, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Alys inhaled deelpy, and Gilbert stared at Francis' shoes, before the CD was placed in the player. It was then when Francis looked up, stared at the screen, and mentally collapsed.

The footage wasn't anything he'd remembered seeing, but what was familiar was the horror that had long been growing in him. Though the audio was reduced to the shuffling of the camera, the pictures of a needle plunging into his thigh, shooting up blue liquid, installed into his mind. Numbness was apart of him and the stranger in the video that was him, the one that groggily tossed and tried to push away, only to have the bed sheets tangle him and chain him for the man with the camera. A hand slid up his bare chest, only then appearing out from below where the image couldn't reach. The skin that the fingers ran over was already pink and burning, sweating even, and it shook under the touch of the other.

"You're lost," a voice sang lowly, and for the length of it appearing for that short amount of time Francis couldn't place it. The hand moved up and clasped the side of Francis' face, which was only visible up to the tip of his pointed nose. "Lost, lost, lost. Lost with me? He told me to lose you, so that I could finally have you."

The camera was aimed squarely at Francis' chest, held steady even when his body moved up on the sheets, and then back down, and back up faster than before, despite the small growl it amassed. Then Francis was moved up again against the sheets, his lips sealed tight and jaw clenched but still looking completely drugged and helpless before the video blacked out and another clip played.

And then another. And another. And Francis still didn't place Arthur's voice until the ending clip, where the camera went close to his face and the voice whispered, "I love you, I love you in my own little way." Then the hands reached out again and proceeded to start the ritual of undressing that had shown itself in the clips, before this time, the stranger that wore Francis' face rammed into the other in a flurry of senseless direction. His thoughts were once again fogged after Arthur shoved several capsules into his mouth and forced the swallow, but the shot didn't come, leaving him with the ability to not know who it was that he silently grabbed. His long fingers clamped a headfull of hair, and Arthur didn't get the chance to shake himself out of his briefly stunned state before he was dragged to the headboard, held up, and smashed into the corner of the wood, splattering blood on the pillows and wall and the face of a man that Francis was horrified of.

No noise accompanied the chorus of skull meeting impact over and over besides the shouts and writhing and eventual screams of Arthur, until his hands dropped from Francis' and he fell silent, as if asleep. The camera was eventually picked up off the bed, placed on the table, and stayed there staring at a sleeping, bleeding Arthur that layed on the bed, until Francis walked by and the light was shut off.

Francis deteriorated. The albino wasn't where his eyes rested, as the policeman chose to eye the floors and walls the entire time. Even Alys, looking near Francis but not quite at him, wasn't the target of the Frenchman's immediate attention. It was only the blackened screen, and how he knew in this nightmare there would be no dawn to sing to. So, he stood, backed away from the statue-like figures of his friend and cousin, and left the building to the hospital.

It was as if when he opened the door to the viewing room, shut the door, and looked back at what was ahead of him, Arthur's hospital room was right there. Not a second in the world had passed where Francis paid any attention to anything other than the video clips, burned into his mind, and causing both numbness and disbelief in his heart. The room was wallowing in a sea of black uncertainties, and the IVs rippled like waves over his conscious mind like electric shoots of thunder piercing his skin. Francis felt raw, like he had carpet burn all over his mental self, if not completely skinned. Maybe that was why the normally calming atmosphere of the hospital room had turned into a place where his mind was hazed, and every step closer he took towards Arthur was a step filled with him holding back a straggled sound of tears. The only real notable light was through the window curtains, as they glowed and left Arthur veiled in a ghostly sheen, and Francis dripping with dejection and anguish.

Then he was at the edge of Arthur's bed, knelt on the floor at his side and grasping the sheets as he'd done on the screen, crying and unable to even begin to form any words. However, his deep blue eyes looked up through their blurriness when he felt a hand on his cheek, and saw the dark, haunting of Arthur staring back.

"Shh, it'll be alright. Smile, darling."

* * *

><p><strong>Ending comments;<strong> My apologies if the last part of this chapter seems somewhat lacking, but for some reason or another I couldn't write more than two or three paragraphs before feeling completely drained and devastated. Writing something has never affected me this much, but I guess that along with the investment I've put into the characters of Francis and Arthur, I just feel, well, fucked up. Yay.

Well, hope you all enjoy! Two more chapters coming up, the first of the two probably fairly soon since it'll be at the most 1k words.

The reason why Francis didn't remember having practically beat the living shit out of Arthur was because of what Alys had talked about: irresistible impulse, stacked with massive denial from the fact that Francis loves Arthur with all that he has, which caused him to not remember the night. See Lorena Robbitt's case as an example, though I don't really want to type out the gist of it at the moment, haha.


	7. Chapter 7

Francis looks over, down the other side of the simple white room, and then at the other side, and it is as vacant as its monotonous other. The walls have no doors nor windows, and the ceilings and floor give nothing away but a off-white sheen. No lamps or lights are present, but everything is still as clear as day, most especially the wooden desk and chair placed purposefully at the center of the room.

Vipers of smoke rise silently from a long pipe. It zips along a pir of lips, and ashes are knocked from it, and it preforms a vanishing act into a long beige trenchcoat. "A seat if you will, Francis," the man says, and he pulls out the seat and turns to stand at the corner of the room like a video camera on the wall.

Pale blue eyes skirt calmly to Abel, take in his soothing presence, before he moves to the table. The Frenchman feels the chair top with a brush of his long, thin fingers, before he pulls it out with a slight scraping noise and sits. Then his hands are folded atop the desk's surface, right before a manual recorder. Not much thought passes, if not any at all, before his index finger finds the **PLAY** button. He shuts his eyes.

A whole other world falls underneath him, piecing together like brushstrokes of blacks, browns, grays, all painting underneath his leather shoes and around his figure before a court room is fully drawn. Francis sees himself standing at the defense table, and he tastes the blood that he draws out from his inner lips as he gnaws at it, trying to keep the letter's words less real than the pain in his mouth, and in his chest. _You should have left me there to die._

An array of blues and silvers spills over the frame of a bathroom, in which Francis opens the door and finds that red had been tinted in as well. Arthur's skin, red and irritated from sheer fear and anxiety, as he holds a pocket knife blade above his wrist. "Francis, I'm so sorry," is all he says, and Francis rushes over to grab the knife, throw it against the wall as hard as he can, trying to cast it away from their sight, before embracing the Briton, giving him all of his worldly warmth in the icy cold bathroom. _I'm just so sad._

"I mean, I never thought 'e'd leave. I just thought... that 'e'd always be here."

Greens and a rushing colbat river is water-colored into this canvas, where Arthur and Francis sit leisurely along the banks of the Scarborough Bridge river. In the grass, though Francis still is numb from the news of his Grandfather Romulus' death, he finds that this serenity that he found that day was something that always seemed to make him want to go back, especially since the memory included within it the Arthur that he'd known before, that willingly held his hand and looked deeply within him with green eyes, and smiles. "It's okay to be sad, Francis." And his hand squeezes tighter around his, making Francis feel comforted. _So that's that._

Wooden is the color of Antonio's eyes as he looks at Francis, more confused than confirmed. However, his French counterpart nods and smiles, and he subconsciously averts his eyes for a moment towards the bathrooms where Arthur had vanished before he looks back and nods. "'e's doing so much better." Having succumbed to a disbelieving stare, though Antonio often tried to not seem so pessimistic about things, it is Francis' turn to chuckle lowly and reassure him with an, "I'm 'appy that 'e's willing to have me, and that I get to 'ave him. 'e is, well, amazing." _We're not there yet, are we?_

Francis knows that he's not there yet. Both of him knows; The Francis in the white room sits, waiting for his colors to reach the point where he can start over again, but the Francis that is strewn in brilliant golds and a skywash of blue stands in the field of spinning grain, only waits for the news cast to reach its point of finish. However, his fleeting thought is interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket, so he quickly fishes it out and soothes its shaking form by flipping it open and saying, "'ello?"

"Francis!" Exclaims the other on the line, obviously Arthur. "I need to get one thing straight. If you think that we're going to be putting the milk on the left shelf all the time, you're certainly wrong. It belongs on the right shelf."

"It is always supposed to be on the left shelf, Arthur. Get over it."

"Well, you're not home, so you can change it back when you're here, but I'm putting it back and it should stay there because it belongs there."

At this, Francis clasps his face, wondering how on earth he thought he could manage a stingy, stubborn British man, nonetheless be in a relationship with such a time of person, before he gave up all together and only laughed at the absurdity of the entire conversation. "You're silly, you know that, right?"

"Not as silly as you," Arthur mutters, but Francis' ears can pick up the faintest of exasperated humor in his voice as well.

"Do what you wish with the milk. Until I get back."

"Game on." _If I win this game, you owe me that five pounds you never paid me back the other day._

"You gave me that five pounds; I don't owe you anything!" And while Francis speaks in his annoyed tone, the Briton, with one long, sharp roll of his arm (which was tipped with the white of his Wii remote), wins the bowling match and smirks smugly at Francis. "Now you do." The parlour, though it is dampened with the yellow glaze that waxed down from the ceiling lights, is scribbled in with warm browns and greens, along with the white walls that were dotted here and there with the television on the front face, and some paintings and pictures on the others.

Francis furrows his brow at him trying to maintain the annoyed feeling in him that was ever-so-quickly turning into a feeling of wanting to kiss that damnable smile off of his boyfriend's face, before he gives in anyway and pulls away with a yawn. Arthur, however, pulls away with a mock brow furrow that teasingly imitates his own and says, "am I that bad?"

"Never," Francis says, and leans forward for another kiss, this one now more controlled by his partner, before putting away once again and waving his hand over his shoulder as he walks away. "Good night!"

The Francis in the white room jerks. This is it. He was there now. However, his eyes are still closed, until he opens them and is no longer lost in nightmares.

* * *

><p><strong>Ending comments;<strong> Chapter consisting of memories. Meant to be a filler, and to give some more background, and to fill in some missing things in the storyline. The next chapter will be the last chapter, however, so stay tuned! Also, comments give me insurmountable, well, inspiration, really, so please don't be shy to give me input, constructive critisism, and all of those great things.


	8. Chapter 8

**llipop24;** Thank you very much! I made things seem vague due to Francis not having known what was exactly going on himself, but yes, that's the gist of it. Sorry if it was hard to understand.

**DanieSora;** Thank you!

* * *

><p>And the nightmares had seemed so real that Francis' skin feels close to numb, not quite enough to be completely oblivious to the sheets that wrap around him, but enough to make his skin prickle. There's sweat too, glistening lightly over his forehead, and his shirt feels damp and plasters itself on his chest and back. For the life of him, however, he can't seem to remember what he had dreamed that affects him so. All that itches at his mind is the fact that he wants to see Arthur, chest heavy in an anticipation of unknown origins.<p>

"Ar-Arthur?" He calls, and he's surprised at the hoarseness in his voice. Francis takes a moment trying to remember whether or not he'd done a lot of talking the day before to have brought it about, but his mind can't seem to figure out if he's trying to remember yesterday or his nightmare.

The relief works into his bones, soothes through his flesh and straight to the white, winding porcelain underneath, when Arthur emerges through the doorway and to Francis' side. Those eyes of folding green, canopies that shower spring song down to the earth below, are the most precious jewels he's ever seen, and his lithe fingers find themselves straying up to linger against the side of the Briton's face. "Arthur."

"Is anything the matter?" he says, his brow furrowed in concern, and there is a new studying look to the way his eyes narrow. "I called in for you at work so that you could stay home, you looked like you weren't sleeping well."

Why is it that his heart is swelling so, like a bud blossoming so far that its silken petals swell and compress and fold against his lungs, expanding his chest, until all he can do is burst? The intensity of the sky in his eyes is as fierce as a lover's good-bye, or more accurately, the greeting of someone not seen for years. It feels like it's been years, and Francis grew old and weary and withered away until he opened his eyes and found the warmth in Arthur's eyes, a vessel to blame for this emotion.

"Could I please have some water?" Francis settles on, prodding his throat, and Arthur looks confused enough to be able to do nothing but comply, so he nods and shuffles away.

The absence hits him like a hand working its way through the cavity of his chest, trying to rip out the warm, budding flower deep in his core, and Francis exhales sharply and puts a hand over his stomach. The dreams are getting fuzzy now, and all he can thing about is a ringing that's in his ears. _There is a destiny to be shattered, Francis._

His hands are shaking, and he swears that if there were ever an experience of deja vu in his life, this one trumped all. Arthur is here again, extending a glass of clear, pure water, and he smiles uncertainly. Francis feels uncertain all over, scared of this voice, but he grabs for the water with fingers shaking like a leaf rolling and applauding in the breeze, and the cup drops, and the ring is complete, sending lilts of euphoria in the room, conjuring a choir of angels to rid the hand from ripping his lungs out further.

"Christ, Francis! Ouch!" Arthur exclaims, and half sits, stumbles falls on the bed. There's a shard of glass in his foot, and he winces and pulls it out in one sharp movement. Francis swears that the sight of blood on the bedsheets hurts him more than the cut hurt his other, so much that it makes him want to puke, and he can't place why.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll get the broom, stay here," the Frenchman insists, and another strange glance is tossed at him before Arthur nods. Francis knows he's acting weird, but everything seems to be dire and necessary, and he doesn't know why. So instead he maneuvers around the shards of glass with his own bare, pink-bottomed feet and makes way to the parlor.

A faint knock sounds at the door, and whoever it is is gone when he opens the door. All there is is a note at the doorstep, and Francis cringes, and after feels like hitting himself because he feels so strange and everything is making him react so strangely that he almost wants to go back to bed and drag Arthur under the covers to curl up and squeeze his eyes shut. It's been so long since he pressed his nose against the nape of his neck, took in his scent of tea-herb and cheap shampoo.

No it hasn't, he contradicts, and instead of going through even more confusion Francis simply cuts that train of thought and picks up the damn note, peels open its damn seal, and slowly feels every damned feeling of anxiety rise within him and twist his inside outside, and it hasn't got anything to do with this weird morning, or these strange feelings, because it's signed _Roy_ and adressed to _Arthur_ in chopped cursive, and in the middle it says_ you can't run from me. let's meet at Gawson's Motel to settle your having left me, you little shite. _

"Arthur?" Francis begins, tentative but determined, and he makes sure to weave through the glass on the floor before sitting on the bed next to Arthur.

"Really, what is the matter?"

"Who is Roy?"

The green in his eyes suddenly turns sharply, darker as they cast down, everywhere else but Francis' unknowing, worried face. "What do you know about Roy?"

"Your brother," Francis says slowly, and there's a knot of dread in his stomach, because he has never heard of this man before until this note that was all kinds of disturbing, croning for Arthur to come back to his brother, to make sure that the both of them never see the day of light agan, to settle him having left Roy. The note is passed from his hands to cold ones, and after a single read Arthur breaks down and leans his head against Francis' chest willingly when he is pressed to it.

"I never told you, I don't know why I never did but I didn't. He scares me _so much_."

* * *

><p>Scars are like wounds, never healing, always biting when the right liquid comes along to soak in remembering flesh and summoning back the pain. Arthur shows him his own, and again to the police, and once more at court when they stand together and Roy sits at the defense side and burns holes into Francis with his devil's glare, but he doesn't care. All that matters is that Arthur is okay, that he never has to go a day without holding his hand, just like they do now, and they're both trembling.<p>

Arthur is out of anticipation and the finality at the end, finally seeing Roy being carted off in handcuffs, damned to a lifetime in prison. Francis, because the last of Arthur's unnamed burden that he's seen being shouldered for so long is now identified, now available for him to carry on his own shoulders as well, to help Arthur get through this with him by his side.

* * *

><p>He meets his lips, his fingers close around his, they work through things, unlock doors never opened, pick the locks of some and kick open others. The therapy helps Arthur, and at night their kisses are all it takes to spend them, and in the mornings they sit on the porch and hold hands, rocking in the swinging bench. The sun lathers generously over the pavement, the trees that line the street. A girl on a scooter bolts past across the walkway. Life is good. The scars are fading.<p>

It isn't often that they talk about Roy outside of the psychiatrist's office, but Francis turns and brings another hand to clasp Arthur's when he says, "I just wish I could have helped him," because he knows who he's talking about.

His tears are long spent, the Briton's, and nowadays it's all simple realizations out of the blue, sudden clarities, old acceptances working and building until they are wrought in full. Or at least Francis believed so, until Arthur snuffs and rubs his freckled nose, a tell-tale sign of oncoming tears.

"All that matters now, Arthur, is that you're happy," Francis whispers, his voice like the soothing breeze that rustles the trees. "All that matters to me is that you're happy."

"I know that, you sap. You tell me often enough," Arthur grunts, but he's biting his lip, a hand gently knocking the long-haired man's head. Francis, however, is the sappiest out there, and only grins indulgently at how his other tries to stop from smiling with his teeth.

"Smile, darling," he whispers over his forehead, and their hands are locked, and his lips press against the skin there on Arthur's brow, and the smile comes. "There are too many angels watching over you to do otherwise."

"You're my angel," Arthur murmurs, offhandedly but earnest and true, and he catches Francis' chin with his fingers and catches a pair of lips with his own.

They sink into the summer warmth, the sun sinks under the night, and the moon under day, and they sink and rise and drown under the tides of their river. And it lasts forever, because they drown in it together, revel in the life in the water, in perfection and bliss.

* * *

><p><strong>End notes:<strong> Well, on the bright side, I didn't actually die, right? Just took about half a year to update, yay. However, finally finished! I know that the end chapters to this fic get weird, so if you have any questions at all, feel free to ask and I will answer to the best of my ability on what my thoughts were while I was writing it. However, interpretations are more fun, just saying.

Also, just thought I'd add that there is a slight change to the chapter before this one. Nothing huge, but I wanted to give at least a little resolution to Abel's character.


End file.
